Page 49 of Shots on Net

“Vas,” I say, exasperated. “Zeke won’t understand anything about the draft or being a free agent; besides, I’m not going to do it so it doesn’t matter. You’ve got to let it go.”

He turns to follow Max into the showers. “Talk to Zeke,” he calls, before turning the corner.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, and finish pulling my gear off.

I manage not to think about it until I’m in the car heading home. Then, as though the silence of the car allows my subconscious to stretch it’s legs, the thought dances across my mind. What if I did put myself out there as a free agent? What if, what if, what if.

I can’t deny that’s what I want to do. Of course, it is. The only thing I’ve ever wanted is to play hockey in the NHL. Hell, I’d play in the minors even. As long as I got to continue playing, I couldn’t care less. But I’m an only child and it has never entered into my mind that I would get a choice about what my future would be. It was certainly never presented to me any other way; my dad has always told people that I’ll follow in his footsteps. The family business, he calls it. I have no idea what would happen if I turned my back on that, and told him I wanted to pursue a professional hockey career. The sick feeling in my gut warns me they don’t love me enough not to disown me, if that were to happen.

When I pull into the garage and kill the engine, I sit there for a few minutes and try to get my thoughts under control. Somehow, Zeke is able to read my facial expressions no matter how much I try to control them. He’ll be able to tell the moment I walk inside that something isn’t right. But maybe Vas is right and I should just talk to him about it. It would be nice if somebody else would just tell me what to do, and maybe that person could be Zeke.

Decided, and already feeling marginally better, I pop the door open and head inside. The door from the garage bounces off the wall and I don’t bother trying to catch it before it slams. From upstairs, I hear a laugh.

“Hi, Carter!” Zeke calls. I drop my bag next to the door with a thump and jog up the stairs. He’s in his room, at his desk; the chair is swiveled toward the door as though he knew I would immediately come to his room. He smiles when he sees me. Before I can second guess myself, I stride over. Placing one hand gently on the side of his neck, I bend and kiss his temple.

Backing up, I sit down on the end of his bed and enjoy, for a second, the blush creeping across his face. His already big eyes have reached Disney Princess proportion. Pleased with myself, I put my hands behind me and lean back. Zeke clears his throat.

“Well, hi,” he says, as though he didn’t already greet me.

“Hi. Are you busy?” I nod toward the ever-present books scattered across his desktop. He shrugs.

“Not too busy for you. What’s up?” He scoots the chair closer to me. I wish he’d join me on the bed, instead.

“I was wondering if I could pick your brain about something. Hockey stuff,” I add, apologetically. I’m always aware of the fact that I probably talk about hockey too much around him; he’s never told me to stop, but I know he’s not a big sports fan and I don’t want him to get sick of me.

“Oh, of course. What’s going on?” He crosses an ankle over one of his knees, and I have to bite back a laugh. He looks like a guidance counselor.

“Okay, so I didn’t get drafted when I was eighteen, obviously, but college athletes can always enter the pros by becoming a free agent and signing with a team,” I pause, waiting to see if he’s following. He nods encouragingly. “Uhm, but you need an agent and stuff to do it, and I don’t really know how that all works, so I’d need Coach Mackenzie’s help, probably. I, uhm…”

I trail off, uncertain. I don’t even know how to voice this question without sounding like an entitled jackass. Especially to Zeke, who grew up in a trailer park and is here on scholarship.

“You know what, never mind. It’s okay, I’ll figure it out.”

“Carter, no, it’s okay. Tell me,” he says this like an offering not a command. Fuck it, I guess.

“Alright. Alright,” I repeat; leaning forward, I rub my palms over my thighs. “So, like I said, you need an agent and everything, but if I were to get one I could potentially be picked up by a team at any time. They might not need me until I graduate, but they might need a goalie now, you know? So, anyway, the thing is…I’m not supposed to play hockey. I’m supposed to join my dad at the company once I graduate and then eventually take over from him. That’s always been the plan.”

“Whose plan?” Zeke asks.

“My parents’,” I shrug, and he frowns at me. “So, I guess my dilemma is that I’m not sure what would happen if I told my parents that I was going to go after a professional hockey career, and not work for Dad. I think they’d probably cut me off, which means I’d have to quit school because my dad pays my tuition. And if I wasn’t in school, I wouldn’t be playing hockey, which means I’d have to get picked up by a team, which isn’t a guarantee, and—."

“Hey.” Zeke leans forward and puts a hand on my knee. I have to remind my lungs to work. Before he can take it away, I put my fingers over his. He moves the chair even closer, so that he doesn’t have to reach so far.

“So, that’s the problem, I guess. And I know it sounds so fucking entitled, and it’s a ridiculous problem to have. Ridiculous to even consider it a problem. But I’d really like your advice, please. Tell me what to do.”

He’s so close to me now, our knees are touching. I spread my legs a little wider in the hope that he’ll move the chair closer still. His hand is warm on my leg, eyes intent on mine. He doesn’t rush to answer, but ponders for a few moments; I appreciate but also hate this. The longer the silence continues, the more I think he’s going to tell me an answer I don’t want to hear.

“Okay, well, I think the most obvious place to start is Coach Mackenzie. You can have a conversation with him and not involve your parents at all, at this stage. And you said he’s with an active NHL player, right? So maybe that’s a thread you can tug on, as well. He’s got his finger on the pulse—he can probably tell you exactly what your odds are when it comes to finding a team.”

“Yeah,” I breathe, already pacified by that answer. He’s right, and when you lay it out that way it sounds ridiculously simple.

“But, Carter, I really think you need to decide what you want to do. You’re concerned about what your parents want you to do and whether or not you’re good enough, which are both valid. But I don’t think either should be the deciding factor. Do you want to play hockey or do you want to work for your dad?”

“Hockey,” I say, before he’s even finished asking the question.

“Right. So, let’s figure out a way to make that happen,” he tells me, firmly.

“Okay, but what about my parents? Like I said, I live completely off of their dime, so…”

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